Redolent
by mmmslash
Summary: Ed would later tell people that he didn't know what had drawn him to the south of France, but it was a lie. To himself he swore that he could smell the lemons all the way in Munich. RussellEd.


As the curve of the dirt road began to line up with the small cottage on the hill before him, Ed found himself sighing and tugging his traveling sack further up his shoulder. He could already smell the citrus in the air. 

He was finding himself more frequently at the lemon orchard; his friend needed his help often, now that summer was here and the trees were fruiting. Before he could knock on the graying wooden door, it opened and he was greeted with a warm clap on his shoulder. It felt wrong and uncomfortable even then, but he smiled and snapped the taller boy's ridiculous suspenders.

"Please, come in. We've been waiting."

Ed smiled and waved at the younger brother sitting at the wide table in the kitchen and watched as large, blue eyes widened in joy.

"Franck, Henri. It's been too long," he said, forcing a smile at the two unsettling men in front of him.

Ed would later tell people that he didn't know what had drawn him to the south of France, but it was a lie. To himself he swore that he could smell the lemons all the way in Munich. This was ridiculous, of course. He knew that. But it didn't stop him from packing his things and setting out. It wasn't home, he knew, but neither was Munich. He would try to convince himself that the trek wasn't the result of any sort of melancholy resignation, that he wasn't admitting that he couldn't get home and that any familiar face was enough.

He would tell himself, at first anyway, that it hadn't been _Russell_ that he was hoping to see, but rather some familiar terrain. He wouldn't even dare to think that he had wondered what the elder Tringham's tongue would feel like on his own, or what his hair would smell like. He would never admit that the intermittent letters between their two meetings weren't nearly enough to satisfy the cravings that he was feeling more intensely each day.

When Ed had finally crossed back through the gate and returned home, after he'd taken care of everything that he needed to in Risembool and Central, he made a point to get to Xenotime as quickly as possible. When the weathered door to the Tringhams' small cottage opened, Ed's first reaction was to do the only thing that felt right – he hugged Russell. Russell's first reaction was to let him. Ed's second was to press their lips together with sudden fervor. Russell's second reaction, predictably, was to punch him.

And that, too, felt right.

"Do you have a brother, Edward," Franck asked, "you've been coming here for a year now and we know so little about you."

Ed smiled. "I do," he said, because he was certain beyond a doubt that Al was alive.

"Older?"

Ed shook his head. "A year younger. His name is Alphonse."

"Ah, a French name." Franck took a long, quiet drink from his mug. "Does Alphonse not travel with you?"

Ed looked down, letting the shadow cast by the fire hide his sadness. "No. We don't keep in touch as much as I would like."

Franck took the empty seat beside Ed on the couch. They could hear soft snores coming from Henri's room behind them.

"I don't know what I'd do without Henri. It's been just the two of us for so long."

Ed smiled lightly. This story, this sadness, these eyes were Russell's, even if the open honesty and the tenderness were not.

"I used to not know," Ed whispered, "I used to think I'd go crazy."

"Did you?"

"Maybe a little, for a while. But I know he's happy and that's enough for now."

"What about other family," Franck asked, firelight licking at his smile. Ed resisted the urge to join it. "A girl?"

"No other family," Ed said, setting his mug down too close to Franck's, maybe on purpose, "no girl."

"That's a shame," Franck said, taking the bait and letting his hand brush against Ed's as he reached for his own mug, "you should have a girl."

Ed let his fingers hesitate against Franck's for a moment too long. "Never felt the need," he said with an overly casual shrug.

"Hmm," Franck sighed and flicked those long, troublesome bangs out of his eyes. In that moment, Ed was reminded more of Russell that he ever had been before.

Somehow their lips found each other in the firelight, coming together like inevitability and something more familiar than it should have been.

Ed would never be able to remember who had started it, whose tongue had pressed for entrance, or who cautioned for silence so as not to wake Henri. He wouldn't be able to remember how Franck's long limbs and lean muscles were bared. He wouldn't remember why they ended up on the floor, gasping and sweating and clinging to something so tangible that they could taste it.

All that he would remember would be how much Franck's hair smelled like lemons.

"Did you have friends there," Russell asked, twisting a lock of Ed's hair around his smallest finger, "you never talk about it."

Ed leaned back, enjoying the feel of Russell's chest against his spine, and rested his elbows on Russell's bent knees.

"I made some," he said.

After that first night in the den with the firelight and the tea, Ed finished his work quickly each day, fighting opposite urges to run to Franck's room and to run back to Munich. In the younger man's embrace, Ed felt at the same time more at home and more estranged than he had since first arriving in this world.

So much about Franck was just like Russell. Those long-fingered hands, the knowing smile, the same shade of tan on his shoulders after long hours in the orchard. But he wasn't Russell. Ed would remind himself of this each time Franck's kisses became too gentle, and every time that he failed to make fun of Ed's stature as he dragged a bench out into the orchard to harvest the lemons. It felt somehow deceitful. As much as Franck's mouth and hands and body thrilled him, Ed felt like he might as well be sitting alone in his bedroom fondling himself while staring at a stolen photograph.

When the summer ended and the lemon harvest waned, Ed returned to Munich, never taking the time to answer Franck's many letters.

The first time he and Russell made love, Ed was surprised at the lack of spontaneity. They had been sneaking kisses and small touches for months by then, grudgingly at first, but more boldly with time and practice and confidence. It wasn't an encounter of escalating passions, nor was it one of sudden confessions. It was almost scientifically methodical, very deliberate. Al and Fletcher had gone into town while Ed sat with Russell in the companionable silence of the den. There had been no fire and no tea.

Russell had casually mentioned that they could maybe take their physical relationship to the next level. Ed had casually agreed. They then planned the tryst, picking the perfect time, the perfect location. Not in a romantic sense, but in a logistical one. When it came time to disrobe and get down to business, if Russell was surprised that Ed seemed to know quite well what he was doing, he didn't let on.

It wasn't as awkward as it could have been, considering the parties involved. But it wasn't romantic or moving. Though, neither were they, so it was all right. There were no slips of uncomfortable words, no embarrassing moans. Russell cried out only once, a soft gasp of air sliding from between his lips. Ed wasn't sure if it was a noise created of pleasure or of discomfort, but Russell moved quickly to push kisses onto his collarbone, so he figured that it didn't really matter.

When Ed reached his climax and let Russell cup the back of his head and press it to his shoulder, Ed noticed that Russell didn't smell like lemons at all.

He just smelled like home.


End file.
